War on the Homefront
by Lady Karasu
Summary: ..."Do you know who's behind this?" He'd like to know; like to have faith that Sherlock will find the sick *censored* that put them through this...


3am fic, so a bit rougher than I would like. Self-beta'd. Concrit welcome.

Title: War on the Homefront  
>Words: 1025<br>Rating: PG/PG-13  
>Warnings: No major triggers I noticed<br>Tumblr Prompt (more or less)  
>PairingCharacters: Sherlock & John (gen)  
>Inspired by: This photoset (reblogged with additional text)<br>fyeahsherlockandjohn (dot) tumblr (dot) com / post / 15221733295

So, ran across a random photoset on tumbler that had had this text attached to it:

_Sherlock AU / __Film Noir, Assassin /_

_?: Your mission, Doctor Watson, is to eliminate Sherlock Holmes.  
>JOHN: But.. he's my friend.<br>?: You of all people should know that Sherlock doesn't have friends.  
>Rest assured though Doctor, if you don't hunt him down, he'll kill you first. <em>

It stuck in my head like a prompt. And then this happened…

oOoOo

oOoOo

The game of cat and mouse went… well, just about as long as he'd expected, really. Probably longer than Sherlock had, but he'd always had a high opinion of his own skills, and he sometimes (rarely, admittedly) forgot about John's.

That was probably why he had gotten the upper hand, in the end. But then- well.

Sherlock was down – stunned, but alive; the shot merely a graze.

That's how he knew.

John prided himself on knowing his own mind, his own limits and motivations. Sometimes he got caught between conflicting impulses – when that happened, he just had to hope for an epiphany.

Sherlock bleeding, down, but _breathing_ was acting as that epiphany, now; telling him what his ultimate choice would be.

He was, after all, an excellent shot.

Gun steady, he broke cover, closing in on his quarry. He'd like some closure first, but he'd have to be quick. He knew his decision, but didn't fully understand it yet; needed a moment to rationalize it.

John was, by no means, a suicidal man; he wanted to live, craved each breath sucked into his lungs, the frantic beating of his heart reminding him how much with each pulse – but this… he was unwilling to do this, even if it meant his life.

Such as it was.

He stepped closer – a companionable (but safe) distance, were it not for the circumstances – gun on target; to wound, presently, not a kill shot. He's sure Sherlock noticed, but hasn't commented, face shuttered, staring back silently, expectantly. Expectant of what, was uncertain; John never could tell what was going on in that funny brain of his; not if he wasn't given a tell to work with, some expression or twitch. Those he knew like the back of his hand. Now he wasn't sure – probably planning a way to turn the tables – play John like the virtuoso he was; or he could just be resigned to the loss. He doubted it, though; Sherlock was a horrible loser.

He bit back a strained chuckle.

That was it, really; his life being the enviable thing it currently was all wrapped up in the man he was supposed to shoot to survive. That was a no-win situation. He wins this game, he still loses his life, if a bit more metaphorically. Perhaps. He thinks about his life after the war, but before Sherlock – really thinks about it – and finds his reason. Comes to terms with the decision he's already made.

He doesn't move just yet – wants this moment, if it's the last he'll get.

"What will you do, after?" His voice is painfully loud in the deserted access tunnel, though it's barely above a whisper.

Something flickers across Sherlock's face, but it's gone before it registers, the only lingering effect the slight narrowing of his eyes. He doesn't try to move. "Decompose, I would assume."

He shook his head once, as if that would negate the statement. Ignored it. "Do you know who's behind this?" He'd like to know; like to have faith that Sherlock will find the sick bastard that put them through this – wants to believe his actions were just as unwilling even if he doesn't know what leverage was used. Can't imagine what it would take.

Eyes narrowed further. No answer. Didn't really change anything, in the end.

"Sherlock, I want you to know-"

"Do spare me, John, and get on with your _job_." The sneer was obvious, but the slight look of hurt was less so; badly hidden, or was Sherlock trying to subtly play him? He could never really tell on the best days, and today was not even in the running. The voice that started this debacle ran faintly in his memory. '_You of all people should know that Sherlock doesn't have friends.' _

"Please. You're not making this easy."

"My apologies, Doctor, I was not aware that was one of my duties in these circumstances." Scorn. Faint betrayal. He still wasn't sure. It didn't really matter. _'Rest assured though Doctor, if you don't hunt him down, he'll kill you first'_

So be it. Going back to life before held no luster. Shooting his own best friend just to live a half-life wasn't an option.

"Fine. Sherlock, it's been the best year of my life- recent experiences excluded..." Eyeroll. Dismissive expression. John pressed on. "It's been mad, and brilliant; I wouldn't have traded it for anything." He took a breath, braced himself; switched the safety on and tossed the gun forward – an offering – before he could think better of it. "You're my friend, first. I don't blame you for this."

The words had barely faded before Sherlock struck, viper-quick; up and aimed, John's own gun staring back at him. Even expecting it, it was hard to follow, but he managed not to jump and silently patted himself on the back for it as the safety was thumbed off again.

The other man stared at him for a long time. It should have been uncomfortable, but it felt like closure. He let Sherlock look as long as he liked, forced his breathing under control – relishing each new breath he was granted.

"Why-" Harsh, cut off. "No, you obviously expect me to kill you-" Eyes narrowed; visibly fighting the urge to pace; keeping dual attention on his train of thought and John's position.

He stilled suddenly, staring at John in enlightenment for a moment before his face blanked, voice neutral. "You _were_ informed that you had to kill me for your own preservation. That I would kill you if you didn't kill me first."

It wasn't a question. He agreed anyway.

Sherlock stared for another long moment, then abruptly lowered his arm, thumbing the safety back on.

"Always something…" He huffed an irritated breath; started striding away. "You'll need this back-", was the only warning John got. He scrambled to catch the gun tossed carelessly over Sherlock's shoulder, thankful for the safety, and vowing to give him a gun handling lecture sometime in the near future. Assuming-

"Sherlock, what…?"

"Come along, John, we have a man to track and a score to settle."

Well, good enough for him.

For now.

oOoOo

AN: I need to stop writing things at 3am. So, what was surely intended as a 'John and Sherlock forced to hunt each other dueling assassin style' sort of idea (for whatever reason) turned into a John (and possibly Sherlock) manipulated into hunting each other - but it turns out ok because John just isn't willing to shoot his best friend.

I leave it up to the reader's discretion on whether John was the only one manipulated (and then Sherlock just responding in kind to 'suddenly my friend is trying to kill me, if halfheartedly'), or if both were played, and who did the manipulating (and for what purpose). Or I could fiddle with it later. Maybe.


End file.
